


I'm Not A Tea Person

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Established Relationship, M/M, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal always seems so delighted at the potential that exists in every moment of vulnerability that Will experiences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not A Tea Person

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, if you like what I do, I encourage you to check out berlynn-wohl.tumblr.com :)

Meandering about in Hannibal’s sitting room, still not feeling comfortable enough to actually sit, Will leans toward the doorway, so that Hannibal can hear him in the kitchen. “Are you sure I’m not imposing?” he says. “I didn’t intend to just drop in…” 

Hannibal answers before Will can excuse himself any further. “Not at all. I was pleased that you called ahead. It allowed me time to prepare something.” He makes his way into the living room, carrying a serving tray, and sets it on the coffee table. Will is distracted now, examining a drawing that is in progress on Hannibal’s desk. It depicts two men locked in physical combat in the ford of a river. Will does not recognize the figures, or even the style of armor, but he admires the dynamic composition. It looks equally likely that either of the men could be on the cusp of overpowering the other. 

“My home is always open to you,” Hannibal continues. His eyes are on Will but he maneuvers the teapot with perfect accuracy. Will looks up at last, and sees that it is time to come sit on the sofa. 

“I’m not a tea person,” he says, apologetically. 

“You don’t have to be, to appreciate a second-flush Darjeeling oolong.” Having filled Will’s cup, Hannibal places the strainer over his own cup, tipping the pot and pouring the deep orange tea. The smell of it reaches Will’s nose, and he observes, “It smells almost like…a wine?” He may not have Hannibal’s olfactory talent, but he knows that Hannibal always appreciates an effort. 

“Well spotted,” Hannibal says. “This particular variety has a rare flavor and odor, that is reminiscent of muscatel wine.” 

Hannibal notices that Will is looking at the sparsely-furnished serving tray and seeming slightly puzzled. “One does not typically add milk or sugar to this tea,” he says, answering Will’s silent question as he hands the cup and saucer over. “It unfavorably alters the natural aromatic flavor.” 

Will nods, and takes a sip. His eyebrows lift as he remarks, “This is excellent. Wow.” 

Hannibal smiles, not with his mouth but with his eyes. “I acquire my Darjeeling from one particular tea estate exclusively, and only the second flush.” 

The tea is so good; Will worries that he is drinking it too fast, and not savoring it sufficiently for Hannibal’s standards. But when his cup has been drained, Hannibal is quick to replenish it. 

“A moment ago, I reminded you that my home was always open to you,” Hannibal says. “This house is very large. Sometimes it feels too large, as though the spaces are wanting, for not being sufficiently occupied by just myself.” When he finishes pouring Will another cup, rather than returning to his chair he sits beside Will on the sofa. 

Will chuckles and turns to face Hannibal, who is now on the other side of him. “Are you asking me to shack up with you?” 

Placing a casual arm along the back of the sofa, behind Will, Hannibal replies, “I know that you enjoy your home in Wolf Trap. A remote sanctuary where the troubles of day-to-day life are not underfoot…only your dogs are.” He smirks. “I, too, value privacy and solitude, and require much of it to lend efficiency to my various endeavors. But perhaps one day, our lives will reach a point where they are better lived together. A connection may be established between us that is so profound that sharing this house would provide us a _collective_ retreat and seclusion, that would be devoid of the attendant loneliness.” 

“Okay. Yeah, that’s called shacking up,” Will says. He sips his tea. Hannibal’s eyes flick from Will’s eyes to Will’s cup. 

“You may call it whatever you like,” Hannibal says. “I only want to suggest to you the possibility. If you and I became that close, so much so that it seems sensible to rearrange our lives to reflect that closeness…well. Nothing could stop us.” 

Will sets his teacup down in the saucer. “Stop us from what?” 

Hannibal takes the opportunity to lean forward and retrieve the teapot once more. He replenishes Will’s tea and says, “From being happy, of course.” 

Will is not thirsty anymore; he takes one more polite sip. When he lowers the cup and looks at Hannibal, he finds him smiling, not broadly, but lacking the restraint that he normally exhibits. 

Hannibal plucks the saucer and cup from Will’s hand and sets it on the coffee table, then snuggles in closer to Will. He breathes on Will’s ear, because he knows it gives Will a shiver. He finds it endearing how Will scrunches up his shoulder to fight off the trembling, the way he struggles to keep a giggle from escaping. But it’s not long before Will relaxes again, turns his head to get a proper kiss. 

Hannibal’s affection is always like a roaring bonfire on a cold night: scorching and suffocating, but preferable to its absence. Will never imagined that such soft brushes of lips, such simple caresses, could feel so gentle and yet so relentless and inescapable. But when Hannibal slides his fingers over Will’s t-shirt, beneath his button-down, it feels as though he’s putting his hands right under Will’s ribcage to enclose his heart. Every chaste brush of Hannibal’s lips goes straight to Will’s cock, like he’s reaching down though the length of Will’s body to touch it from the inside. 

Hannibal ghosts his fingers over the zipper of Will’s jeans, feeling what’s clearly there. Will wants Hannibal to take it out for him, but Hannibal only smirks and suggests, “Perhaps, rather than remain here, we could retire to the bedroom?” 

Will doesn’t care one way or the other. He’s ready to proceed without relocating, but Hannibal’s “suggestions” are not easily refused. They are always practical, though, so Will manages to collect himself so that he might honor Hannibal’s wish. “Sure,” he says. “I guess we wouldn’t want to mess up your nice sofa.” 

“No,” Hannibal replies, “we wouldn’t.” 

Upstairs, Hannibal strips Will’s clothing away, then lays him down on the bed to watch while he undresses himself. Will used to try to undress Hannibal, but it didn’t feel right, behaving like he was in control that way. Watching while Hannibal dispenses of each article of clothing at his leisure – and showing off at it, rolling his shoulders to shrug off his shirt, letting his cock spring up as he pulls down his soft cotton boxers – is more exciting, anyway. Will lies on his back with his legs spread and his prick stiff, but when Hannibal is ready to join him in the bed, he puts Will on his belly with a pillow under his hips, so his bare behind is tilted up. With his legs still wide apart, Hannibal can see the most private, vulnerable parts of him; Will displays them willingly, because it really doesn’t make him feel any more vulnerable than he ever does in Hannibal’s presence. 

Hannibal retrieves the lube from the nightstand, but for now only puts the tube between his knees, to get it warm. He kneads Will’s buttocks for a while, brushing his thumb lightly over Will’s hole on occasion, then down across his balls, which tighten almost imperceptibly at the touch. He puts resolute palms on the insides of Will’s thighs to spread them yet wider. Will’s breaths are not coming any faster, not yet, but they’re deeper, and he mewls with the firmer touches. 

When he opens the tube, Hannibal muffles the click of the cap, to minimize any clinical atmosphere that might result. The lube goes on warm, and Will just sighs at the pressure of genuine intent against his hole. He likes the feeling of a single finger going up inside him. It is pleasurable in a simple, unchallenging way. He can focus on that single point of sensation, let his brain distribute the good feeling all over his body in the form of shivers, without being overwhelmed.  

Hannibal lets him savor this pleasure. He adds a second finger somewhere along the way, but it requires patience to turn such a defiant muscle into a receptive sexual orifice, and Hannibal is very, very patient. He takes his time, giving Will a little massage inside, making it clear that this act is for its own sake, and not just a perfunctory deed to get Will ready to accommodate his prick. Perhaps he is unhurried because he knows how Will feels about it. Will admitted to Hannibal once that it made him feel dirty, the way Hannibal could open him up so skillfully that, when the moment of truth finally arrived, his cock would slide right into Will’s slippery hole with no resistance. 

It’s just about time for that now, and Hannibal wants Will to tilt himself to get a better angle. Will props himself up on elbows and knees. When he plants the heel of his hand against the mattress, it slips forward, on the cotton sheet. Odd. 

He has no time to dwell on this, because a familiar sort of twinge surfaces in his lower abdomen. “I, ah, I think all that tea just caught up with me,” he says. Hannibal does not relent; his cock presses right into Will, another particular and private feeling invading Will’s guts. “Um, I’m really sorry,” Will says, “but I need to get up. I’ll just be a second, I promise.” 

But Hannibal does not miss a beat, continues working his cock in and out of Will, grips Will’s waist with his large hands to steady him and discourage him from trying to squirm free. 

“Please let me up,” Will says. “I really need to go.” 

“A full bladder will intensify the experience,” Hannibal replies. He always seems so delighted at the potential that exists in every moment of vulnerability that Will experiences. 

“If by ‘intensify,’ you mean ‘make it weird and uncomfortable,’ then yeah,” Will sneers. “So how about letting me up.” 

Hannibal continues to ignore him, leans forward to cover Will’s body with his own, to prevent any counterproductive struggling. He rocks snugly against Will, keeping his cock deep inside, not relieving the pressure for a second. 

Will’s bladder throbs, but he can’t let go, it’s impossible right now while he’s hard. He thinks that, so long as Hannibal lets him up immediately after he comes, he might be alright. In the meantime, the fullness of his bladder makes each tap on his prostate feel like a lightning strike, makes the tip of his cock exquisitely sensitive. Hannibal was right, although Will can never, ever admit it, for fear of encouraging him. 

Hannibal locks his left elbow, putting all the weight on that arm so he can use his other hand to reach under and roughly stroke Will’s cock. It won’t take Will much longer, not with Hannibal all around him, making him feel hot and confined and open all at once. He pushes back, chasing an unbearable orgasm, a piercing amalgam of pain and pleasure that tears a scream from his lungs and tremors from his limbs. 

Afterward, looking down at the spunk he’s put on the sheets, he realizes that they’d neglected to lay a towel down, as they usually did, to contain the mess. He has only a brief moment to think on this, however, because Hannibal is moving more heavily against him, driving hard and with a steadily increasing intensity. 

The coiling pressure is now a painful pulsing. There is not enough room for everything that is going on inside him, but Hannibal is behaving like there is. “Please hurry up and finish,” Will whines, convulsing; Hannibal is crushing his aching bladder. “Now, please. I need to get up, or else I’m gonna…oh, _no no no no_ –” 

White-hot humiliation surges through him as he lets go unwillingly, pissing a hot, hard stream right onto Hannibal’s expensive sheets. Hannibal does not seem fazed, though he must have detected the odor immediately. He carries on, his flanks shimmying mechanically, working Will thoroughly and with precision. 

Even if Will wanted to stop relieving himself – which at this point, he kind of doesn’t – he is so fatigued, he doubts he could flex his pubococcygeus muscle sufficiently hard to squeeze it off. Instead, he endures the shuddering indignity of pissing while on all fours, while Hannibal continues to fuck him. His hand is still on Will’s cock, letting the hot fluid gush over his first two fingers. He pounds into Will, making him piss even harder, though Will had thought he was nearing the end. Finally, Hannibal’s stuttering hips still. He spills deep inside Will’s body, his cheek pressed to Will’s shoulder, panting hotly before turning his face to kiss the damp, smooth skin over Will’s shoulder blade. All through his orgasm, he continues to play with the last warm rivulets dribbling from Will’s cock. 

Before pausing to relax, to savor his release, Hannibal sits up pulls Will back with him, on top of and against him, preventing Will from collapsing into the mess. Will’s back hits Hannibal’s chest, and a powerful arm goes around his ribcage. The longer he twitches with aftershocks of pleasure, the tighter Hannibal holds him. 

“What a filthy thing you are,” Hannibal hums, and nuzzles behind Will’s ear. His cock is still inside Will, but softening, getting ready to slip out, feeling wet and uncomfortable now. Will whimpers, and clenches weakly, to push it out. 

“It’s your fault,” Will groans through gritted teeth, consumed with renewed embarrassment at Hannibal’s scolding. “You made me do it.” 

Hannibal rests his chin on Will’s shoulder, and asks, “Did knowing that allow you to enjoy it?” 

Will doesn’t answer. His head is too full of the smell of fucking muddled up with the smell of musky urine. Hannibal reaches down, still carefully holding onto Will with his other arm, and tugs at the sodden fitted sheet, freeing it from the corner of the mattress. A piece of soft vinyl has been protecting the bed. 

At the sight of it, Will breathes, “You bastard.”


End file.
